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Thursday, June 16, 2016

Welcome to author Isabelle Gecils

Leaving
Shangrila: The True Story of a Girl, Her Transformation and Her Eventual Escape

by Isabelle Gecils

A Memoir...What an intriguing subject this is. Let's hear a little about it.

BLURB:

Leaving Shangrila: The
True Story of A Girl, Her Transformation and Her Eventual Escape by Isabelle
Gecils, is the captivating memoir of a charmingly complex heroine.

Isabelle paints a colorful world as she tells the
tale of how she forged her own path in the midst of turmoil. The story, set in
Brazil where she grew up, is populated with fascinating characters, both good
and bad. From a narcissistic mother to her perpetually flawed lovers to three
resilient sisters, Leaving Shangrila’s motley crew make for an endlessly
intriguing storyline.

Leaving Shangrila begins with young Isabelle,
trapped in a hellish world. Surrounded by lies, manipulation, and abuse,
Isabelle is desperate to escape the adversity of this place. Filled with
tremendous strength and an unyielding drive to survive, she begins her journey
toward freedom and self-realization. Through the trials and obstacles along the
way, Isabelle goes back and forth to balance who she is with what she must do
to survive.

With themes of perseverance, self-reliance, and the
resilience of the human spirit, Leaving Shangrila: The True Story Of A Girl,
Her Transformation and Her Eventual Escape highlights the important character
traits one discovers on the path to finding their self. Truly empowering and
inspirational, readers everywhere will relate to this coming of age story.

Isabelle
Gecils will be awarding a $30 Amazon or Barnes and Noble GC to a randomly drawn
winner via rafflecopter during the tour.

How about the process of writing a memoir and how it may differ from
other types of writing?

While most people, I deeply believe, has a story in them,
when a person writes a memoir, usually (but not always) there is some darkness
in their lives that they are writing about.When the darkness is really heavy, especially in stories of abuse,
neglect, abandonment, the tendency of the person who has overcome it, it is to
simply put it behind them, and move forward.I believe there is why many victims of abuse speak out years or even
decades later, and are questioned on the veracity of their claims.Many revisit this because the wound may be
distant by then, they feel a calling to help others avoid the same fate, or
they seek catharsis.

For me, writing Leaving Shangrila became a reality when I
felt that I needed to tell my son who I really am, where I had come from, what
I had endured, and that if he ever faced adversity in his life, that he would
find the inner strength to do something about it too.

Initially during the writing process, I was selecting about
what I included.I chose to leave a lot
of information out.My sisters’
involvement, some of the major lies we told, even that my stepfather was part
of my life, given for how long we denied his existence.It was when my writing group, classmates at
the Stanford Creative Nonfiction program, and by book advisor asked questions
about holes in the plot and the arc of the story, I reluctantly started writing
about them.Initially, it felt
uncomfortable.But everything is a
process.Once I realize the importance
to be as true to the story as I could, then somehow this hesitancy fell away
and I embraced the writing process, and addressed the more difficult and
emotional parts, with the same relative ease that I addressed others.

Memoirs are also challenging in that, by definition, the
book addresses the lives of others who were there with you.And again, if there was no darkness, there
may not be a book.And therefore, the
book must necessarily include those who were responsible and involved in that
darkness.Not surprisingly, many don’t
appreciate having a mirror held up to them, especially when they don’t like the
reflection. Unlike the author, who chose to speak about their lives, most of
these characters would have been perfectly content to never speak about the
past again.Because I knew that would be
the case in Leaving Shangrila, I took great care to not portray myself neither
as a hero or as a victim.I also took
great care to not pass judgement on those portrayed in the book.I presented the facts as they unfolded, the
readers can reach their own conclusions.

Finally, a memoir, to be effective, places the author in a
place where our deep vulnerabilities are exposed.You can’t hide from who you were and what you
did.Sharing such a personal story with
the world felt uncomfortable and overwhelming at first. But there is such power
in showing who you are.There is strength
in that.And Leaving Shangrila, in its
essence, is a story about strength and triumph over adversity.

Excerpt:

My
entire class staged a school play, except that, unlike everybody else, I
watched it rather than act in it. Joining the theater troop required almost
daily rehearsals at one of my classmates’ lavish colonial homes near school. I
was not invited to join the group. They already knew I would not come.

At
the school grounds, my classmates cracked jokes about what happened during
their afternoons together. They perched on one another as they traded stories
and exchanged hugs. I heard about the English classes they took after school,
their boat trips around the bays of Rio de Janeiro, the excited chatter that
accompanied field trips I was never allowed to join. When the entire class
decided to spend a lightly chaperoned weekend in Cabo Frio, a town with white,
sandy beaches and coconut trees lining the boardwalks, my jealousy meter
spiked. For two months, that is all anyone talked about. Since I did not even
receive an invitation, nobody spoke with me.

I
felt lonely observing them. I longed to be as adored as were the two most
popular girls in my class: Isabela and Flavia. Isabela, despite the discolored
white spots all over her skin due to type 1 diabetes, was the reigning queen.
The boys swooned over Flavia, two years older than the rest of us although she
repeated third and fifth grade due to her poor academic performance.

I
observed these two girls, searching for what it was about them that made them
special. Yes, they were both beautiful. While their beauty may have helped with
their popularity, it surely was not the main factor, as there were other pretty
girls too. I decided that what they had in common, what nobody else had, was
that they were the best athletes in my class, even perhaps the best in all of
the school.

Isabela
and Flavia were always the ones everybody wanted to have on their team and as
their friend. They were either team captain or the first pick. They seemed to
try harder than everybody else. So I thought that if I truly focused on sports,
then I could be just like them. If only I could excel on the handball field—as
girls did not play soccer, despite the madness surrounding the most popular
sport in Brazil—then maybe, just maybe, my social standing could change too. I
made a plan. One day, I would be just as great as these two. One day, I would
be chosen first.

At
the beginning of each week, the P.E. teacher assigned two captains. They, in
turn, each picked a team for the week. We played handball on Tuesdays, volleyball
on Thursdays. And every week, for the past three years, I was the captain’s
last, grudgingly chosen pick. I knew why. Had I been captain, I would have
chosen myself last too.

I
did not score any goals in handball. My throws were either too weak or out of
bounds. Knowing this, my team did not bother passing the ball to me. I spent
the game playing defense, barely succeeding at blocking the other team’s
powerhouse players as they demolished the team I was on. When an opponent
charged towards me dribbling the ball, I got out of the way. In volleyball, I
removed my thick glasses for fear they’d be broken, and as a result, I could
not see the ball coming to hit me in the face.

I
did not particularly enjoy playing sports. However, to change my standing in the
team-selection pecking order, I practiced with a purpose. During games, I
became more aggressive. I wore my glasses. I reached for the goal, whereas
before I simply stood on the sidelines. I blocked more aggressively too—even if
it meant pulling my opponent’s shirt or hair—no matter that this often led to a
penalty against my team. During these early weeks, I returned home with two
broken eye glasses, earned a couple of red cards, and made my teammates angry.

At
home, after completing my homework, I begged my two sisters to play ball with
me. They did play, but not for long. When they grew tired, I threw the ball
against the wall, attempting to increase my arm strength. When my arms felt
tired, I ran around the farm to increase my speed and reflexes by dodging a
pretend ball. At night, as I drifted to sleep, I prayed silently so that my
sisters would not hear me plead: “God, please, make me be chosen first.”

As
weeks turned into months, I became quite adept at catching the ball as it
ricocheted from the wall towards me. I was no longer chosen last. That horrible
fate was bestowed on a shy and almost as awkward classmate who had the extra
disadvantage of being overweight, which slowed her down compared to me; I was
slight and scrawny. Yet, despite months of effort, I did not score any more
than before, did not throw the ball any harder or more accurately, and hardly
touched the ball at all. Since I often increased the penalty count with my new,
more aggressive tactics, the coach had me sit out whenever there was an odd
number of players.

A
year into this futile attempt, I felt a deep sense of disappointment but
realized the foolishness of pursuing an utterly impossible dream. Maybe one had
to be content with their lot in life, I concluded. Any attempts to try to
change who one was, or what one wanted, were futile. Feeling defeated and
deflated and knowing that, despite any effort, the sports court was not a place
for me, I talked myself out of my goal. I stopped practicing in the afternoons.
I removed my glasses again during games. I accepted that I was not meant to be
popular and that the world where my classmates lived did not belong to me.

I
hated my life. I hated going home where there was nothing to do and nobody to
play with. I hated how different we were—with our round house, with our
religious meetings, with our inability to do anything other than go to school.
Not knowing what to do to change any of it, I returned to my routine, finding
friendship in books and getting all my validation from my grades.

Two
months later, I felt sick.

My
head and muscles hurt; my nose was running; and I coughed uncontrollably. I
barely slept. My mother suggested I stay home. No matter how sick I felt, I
would never choose to stay home with my stepfather lurking around. Anywhere was
better than home. Despite my illness, I dragged myself to school that day. It
was a Tuesday, which meant handball day. That morning, I walked to the handball
court, hoping my swollen eyes and drippy nose would help me avoid playing at
all.

“Coach,
I am sick,” I said with narrowed eyes. “Can I sit out the game today?”

“Being
sick isn’t enough reason not to play,” the P.E. teacher said, not even
bothering to look at me. “So, go play.”

Although
students never questioned the decisions of a professor, I protested feebly.

He
dismissed me again, treating me as a little pest who could not be taken
seriously.

“Here
is what you will go do,” he told me. “Your team needs a goalie. Go defend it,”
he said, pointing towards the goal. The regular goalie was also sick that day,
but unlike me, she had the good sense to stay at home.

Off
to guard the goal post I went, grateful at least that I did not have to run or
be pushed around on the court. I hoped that a strong team defense would prevent
me from having to exert much effort. My teammates groaned and shook their heads
in disbelief as they saw me standing in front of the goal, mumbling that the
team had already lost. The opposing team congratulated themselves before the
whistle blew. “This will be easy,” they bragged within earshot, ensuring I knew
they considered themselves to have already clinched victory. Having me guard
the goal was the same as having no goalie at all.

A
surge of anger and despondency bubbled up within me upon hearing their snickers.
I felt tired of always being at the bottom of the totem pole, tired of feeling
ridiculed and different. I puffed my chest as if this would make me larger,
ignoring how painful it felt to take deep breaths.

My
team’s defense did not keep its end of the bargain. The balls from the opposing
team flew towards the goal at unreasonable speeds, from what appeared to be
impossible angles. Yet, I blocked them out. I blocked every single ball that
came towards me. I shielded that goal as if my life depended on it. At the end
of the game, my team won by a landslide.

Not
used to the taste of victory, I did not distinguish the elation I felt from the
confusion at this unexpected turn of events. My dumbfounded classmates looked
at me as if they saw me for the first time, trying to make sense of what had
just happened.

They,
and I, were in awe.

My
feat as the goalie made the gossip circuit and by the following week, despite
some lingering doubt about my abilities, I was picked third in the line-up. I
had jumped seven places in one week! This was better than an improvement; it
was a major victory!

At
the sound of the whistle, the players moved. I tried to concentrate. Not
feeling as angry as I did the previous week, my confidence waned even before
the game started. But I wasn’t playing for the game. I was playing for my
dream, my rank in the social pecking order, and my desire that for once, people
would pay attention to me.

Nobody
pierced my defense of the goal. My team won again.

Two
weeks later, the captains planned the team selection for the school’s annual
Olympic Games. The teams played together for two months in preparation for the
week-long competition, held at a sports complex where all the parents—and the
large, extended families that most Brazilians had—watched the games. The
Olympics was the talk of the school.

My
class split the girls into teams; these teams would play both handball and
volleyball. The P.E. teacher selected the team captains. To my utter surprise,
Isabela was not one of them. Thus, there was a possibility that Flavia and
Isabela, the two best players, could be on the same team together. And that, I
was sure, would lock in victory for whichever team they were a part of. I hoped
that I would be chosen, even if last, to the better team. It was obvious to me
that the opposing team would have no chance and would simply be crushed.

There
was an air of excitement and nervousness at the school playground as the
captains readied themselves to make their picks. Flavia was one of the captains.
Ana Cristina, a strong but not stellar player, was the captain of the opposing
team. After a coin toss, Ana Cristina was first to select players.

“I want Isabelle,” she said pointing at me.

She
clearly meant Isabela, with an “a”, and not me, with the French spelling of a
name most Brazilians did not get right. It made no sense to me that she would
have chosen otherwise. So I did not budge.

I
was too stunned to hear the loud murmur emanating from the cluster of the other
girls at this unexpected choice. This could not be right. I thought Ana
Cristina had been crazy to select me. This choice guaranteed that Flavia would
pick Isabela next. Ana Cristina’s team would be decimated. No team could win
against the two stronger players.

I
looked at Ana Cristina with panic in my face and shook my head. “Don’t do it,”
I whispered. “Pick Isabela first.”

She
looked at me, puzzled.

“Why?”
she asked

“Get
the next strongest player. Don’t let them be on the same team. Worry about the
goalkeeper later!” I stated, with a modicum of desperation in my voice.

She
stared at me with a serious frown on her face and gestured impatiently,
beckoning me.

“Isabelle,
just come over here.”

As
I walked, she spoke loudly enough for all the other girls to hear. “If I do not
choose you, Flavia will. Then my team will not ever have the slightest chance.
Nobody can score when you are defending that goal. You are the most important
player here and the one I want on my team.”

Still
stunned, I moved next to Ana Cristina as the selection continued until all
girls were sorted into teams. Once I got past my horror that we would now face
Flavia and Isabela together, I remembered my wish made months earlier, the one
I gave up so easily, about being chosen first. Yet, even in my wildest dreams,
I had never expected that it would happen during the most important and visible
athletic event of the school year. I felt an unfamiliar feeling of elation fill
my chest. I felt I could burst. A broad smile spread across my face. I went
home, screaming with joy: “I was chosen first! I was really chosen first!”

And
for the first time in my life, I believed I was good at something.

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AUTHOR Bio and Links:

Isabelle Gecils
grew up in Shangrila, a remote farm in a lush jungle in Brazil. But who really
knows where she hails from? Her immediate family hailed from 6 different
countries: France (dad), Egypt (mom and grandma), Turkey (grandpa), Lithuania
(grandpa) and Poland (grandma). There is a freedom in belonging nowhere
and everywhere at the same time.

Leaving Shangrila
is the story of Isabelle’s journey from a life others choose for her to one she
created for herself. To support the writing of this memoir, Isabelle completed
the Stanford Creative Nonfiction Writing certificate program. She currently
lives in Saratoga, California, with her husband, four sons and two territorial
cats.

Thank you all for visiting and for your comments. I love that you enjoyed the excerpt and the interviews.

As for the question about what I would like people to take away from the book, I hope it is the following:1) That honesty truly is the only way to go. Lying only protect those that ask you to lie (and even then, in the long run, I don't believe it does).

2) That if you ever are faced with a situation that looks suspicious, please step in and ask the question: Is everything OK? How is your life? So much evil in the world happens because people remain silent thinking it is "none of their business." But I believe that my childhood would have been different if anyone had simply asked. Maybe I would have figured out a lot sooner that my life was not normal and maybe I would have gotten some help. You just never know who you could help.

3) And that in face of what sometimes seem to be unsurmountable adversity or unfairness, to find the strength in you to refuse the life others choose for you, and create one of you own making.

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